Bag of Laughs
by Darkmoon Redrose
Summary: Twelve years ago, before the siege of Notre Dame, a challenge was issued to the young King of the Gypsies. The challenger? A fiery haired young woman. This tale is not one for the emotionless. It is a tale of curiosity, gall, whit and a romance between the most unlikely of characters. So let loose all skepticism for this in no trick! This story I tell begins with a bag.
1. The Gauntlet

I am here to tell a tale that has never been revealed until now. As you read this story imagine me sitting on a tiny bridge next to the bakery, not too far from my husband as he tells a story of a different sort. I'm a petite woman of 32 with long flowing locks of hair and an ample bosom- oh who am I kidding, I'm a small lady with bushy red hair and grey eyes, pale as a sheet and I could do with a dunk in the river for getting paint all over my hands and possibly a smear or two on my face. I am merely a humble artist who uses her knowledge of painting and sculpting to get by. Later if you like you could brows some of my wears. I have some fine paintings to captivate even the most dulled gaze.

Oh I am sorry I have been distracted, silly me! Enough of this sort of talk that is not why you are here is it. You want to hear a story so I shall tell you one.

Why you ask? Because just recently I had an experience I cannot put into words. I thought had lost my husband… and it tore me apart, that he could have died so easily with nothing to remember him by.

One day we will all be gone and forgotten, but do not fear my friend our stories live on. If I tell this I can be happy that I and the ones I love live on in this book, letter, voice or whatever is telling you my message.

I extend my hand to you and ask that we travel through this together. Step into an early summer morning as the city dopily awakes to the sweet bells of Notre Dame herself 12 years ago in the year 1470, where a young Gypsy man of 23 was in the process of getting robbed blind.

The little children who had escaped from their parents clutches to see the gypsy man perform his puppet show were enthralled by his paternal knack and energy as he practically danced his way through stories with glee and enjoyment. So much so it seemed he had enthralled himself into the stories he told. He did not seem to notice his coin bag had gone missing from the ground where he had put it for begging.

A cloaked woman had been standing to the side of the performance. Watching the man's swaying movements closely before using her toes to guide the bag close enough to her skirts for a little white paw to snag the bag shut and lift it under her skirt inconspicuously. She stayed to watch the show to the end so as not to draw suspicion but noticed that under the guise of a smile and bright colours, the story being told was a grim one. A murder story set on the steps of Notre Dame herself! She wondered if this was at all appropriate for children, but came to the conclusion that this was a very clever piece of propaganda with a very simple and charming moral. And if that wasn't enough she grew slightly jealous of the man's singing voice. It was a treasure in itself the talent of song, one which this girl did not possess.

After the story had finished she smiled and gave the man a clap before heading off into the street. Imagining what sort of reaction he would have to discover that his money bag had been stolen. A thief's reaction was always the best when they found out they had been robbed themselves. Some guilt always slid its way into her stomach when she stole but it was a fact of life, women didn't have any dignified jobs out there and she was a young woman of 20 in a world where people do what they must to get by.

She looked around to gain her bearings, not noticing the inevitable collision course until it was too late. Bumping shoulders with a seemingly familiar face roughly her hand flew up to her hood in alarm.

"Excuse me," the stranger apologised sincerely, "I did not intend to alarm you petite. I keep a sharper eye in the future."

As the two drifted apart the girl turned to glance back at the charming man with a faint blush across her cheeks. It wasn't often someone spoke so politely to her so this meeting had softened her heart somewhat.

That was until she realised who had been so polite to her. Her hand went to her sash to find her own money purse missing.

That damned puppeteer! He had just taken advantage of her shyness and pulled off the oldest trick in the book! He was now sauntering away with her money bag swinging form his gloved fingers merrily. Still keeping the aura of amusement about him while watching her reaction with the broadest grin he could muster.

The furious need to chase him down blazed angrily in her chest. Oh he would have just loved that! The fact he was also baiting her like a cat to string did not help her situation. However, a much more entertaining idea crossed her mind. If he wanted a challenge he could have one! A war of whit and thievery would commence between the two young adults.

She turned round to face the young man and yanked down her hood with a flourish. Her stone eyes infamous for being able to scare even the most hardened soldiers away skewered the gypsy boy into place. The smile vanished, being replaced with a mixed expression of awe, shock and his own potent brand of confrontation. As her enthralling glare changed into a sharp smirk, she bowed her head before turning and walking away.

The Game of Thieves had begun!

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**Hello there you all! Review if you like :D I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoy writing it :3 New chapters shall be up soon!**


	2. Puppet

What did these two know about each other? Not much considering the circumstances.

He knew her shyness was her downfall, blazing red hair and terrifying grey eyes made her incredibly noticeable in the Parisian crowd. She wore green, assuming it was her favored colour due to there being more than one item of clothing in that colour. The extra satchel bag told that she was a traveler and did not know as much about the city as he did, even if she was a Parisian for all of her life he highly doubted she could learn more than he did about the beloved city. He examined her coin purse for extra information. Inside he found a Daisy five bronze coins and one silver coin, some sort of dried treat and a name embroidered into the hem that read 'Lavelle Demarche'.

It was a bit disgruntling that she had the exact amount of coin he had collected but no bother done. He had figured out her name, such a pretty little name at that, and her favored flower. For a girl with such exotic features it surprised him that she would have a heavily French name. He had never heard of the Demarche family. Making a mental note to himself to ask around the Court if anyone knew of Demarche he started to head back home. Business came before pleasure but the pleasure of this game would be a refreshing experience, especially with the company of the mysterious Miss Lavelle.

Lavelle herself was having just as much fun as the gypsy man at that current point in time, on the other side of town.

Sitting on a worn down cot in a kind miller's home she had hung up her cloak, allowed her pet to come out from hiding beneath the ruffles of her skirt and taking out some pet food from her satchel to feed the tiny white fluff-ball. It whined cutely before batting the money bag in her hand, probably expecting a dried treat.

"I'm sorry Fifer, your treats were in the bag the gypsy took," Lavelle whispered softly and petted his white fur gently in a lame excuse of apology, "you can sleep on my hair tonight though, for being such a great performer."

Fifer hooted and clambered onto her shoulder to get a good view of what they had gained from the man. As she untied the bag gently it fell open to reveal its contents.

Inside was the same amount of money that had been stolen from her. Fifer gave a disappointed snort and Lavelle's jaw dropped. If she were a man this would have felt like a kick to the nether regions. All that fuss for nothing!

… Well maybe not entirely nothing. She did admit secretly that the gypsy man was, in his own right, insanely attractive, literally. She was close to positive that the he was bonkers, well and truly. The story he told was almost sadistic the way he portrayed a murder story with such pleasure and enjoyment. Something in her gut told her that was not the only sadistic thing this man had done. He probably stuck pins into dolls, imagining it was a person he didn't particularly like at night.

Inside the bag were also some purple sewing thread and a needle skewered into a tattered piece of cloth. She supposed it was natural for a puppeteer to have a back-up kit should one of the puppets break. The thread was faded in colour, like it had been there for some time. He must take great care of his puppets. For what she had witnessed while watching the show they were finely crafted with intricate detail and kept in good condition. The artistry was beautiful and tricky which will probably carry on into their battling. She also reminded herself that his charming demure was probably a trick in itself and that she should not soften up to polite words again if she wanted to stand a chance in the challenge.

With that she folded up the bag once more, with coins, possessions and all. Tying it up she lay back in the cot and began plotting her tricks to counter and subdue the Gypsy's advances.

.*.*.*.

The gypsy man was hard to find it seemed. Changing location twice every day to avoid guard patrol routes was part of the problem. The other part was that Lavelle had to face facts. She did not know the streets of Paris at all! Getting lost a grand total of six times throughout the day, it was aggravating!

As Notre Dame rang for one o 'clock she sighed and decided to use some of the money in the gypsy's bag to get two slices of bread for lunch from the bakers. The shop was over a quaint little bridge which, as she crossed, had a beautiful view of the river. A fitting place for to eat her humble little lunch.

She wandered up to the stall and indicated to the bread with her mouth tightly shut. When asked for the money she pulled back her cloak to pull on one of four identical bags from her sash. She had made these in the night. The gypsy man may be a professional thief for all she knew, however not even masters of the art are able to steal four bags from under a person's nose.

She paid the baker who gave her an unsure staring down before handing over his goods. Lavelle could only assume that it was because she had a problem with talking to adults… either that or because she was ginger. Yeah it was unusual but this was the place where people wandered round with bells attached to them and a rainbow wardrobe, surely they could get over the fact her hair wasn't brown like a normal persons.

Either way she did not know the reason so she pulled up her hood. The embarrassment of her own appearance had started to attract unwanted attention so she shuffled off to sit on the bridge edge. Her legs dangling above the river as she chewed on the stale pieces. Fifer made an appearance from under her skirt to curl up in her lap and watch the river and the people around it.

"You do it-"

"No you!"

Tilting her head to one side for a second she listened to the squabbling coming from her left. Two young boys were pushing one another towards her in a remarkably unsubtle fashion.

"What?" she asked, turning round to confront two scraggly boys with jet black hair and unusual attire. Patience was a very fleeting virtue and at that point in tie she had none. Hoping she would be left alone to mull over her thoughts.

"It _is_ you!" the boy to the left with a chipped tooth beamed in excitement as his spikey haired friend next to him elbowed the boy in the ribs,

"You owe me a coin-"

"Shaddap!"

Lavelle raised an eyebrow at the odd pair. Butting into their conversation tacitly, "It is I! Now who are you and what do you want?"

"That's the question we wanna ask!" The chipped toothed one whined before babbling on, "oh and I'm Marco this is Philip."

The one named Philip took a deep breath through his nose for what seemed like bravery before asking, "Who are you, where do you come from, what do you want with our leader and… can you spare some change? Were hungry."

Marco listed the questions with his fingers, his thick brows furrowing deeply in concentration as he recalled the questions. Someone was definitely trying to figure out who she was. Either the puppeteer was a master genius or he was the most idiotic man known to walk the earth. She had seen fireworks more subtle than these two children!

"Ok, ok slow down a second. One my name to you is Miss. Two I am from Erehwon and three… here," she handed over her food to the two, "I know it's not much but it will keep your bellies full for a while." A soft smile graced her face as the two boys took the gifts with wide eyes and dopey grins.

A warm endearment filled her stomach at that point. She expected them to run off back to the man who had sent them to her but instead Marco hesitated.

"Is your hair really like a fire bird? If it's not too much to ask… can I take some back to my mama. She don't think you're real."

Now Lavelle didn't know how the boy thought she was a fire bird, what an odd thought, but with a rummage in her satchel she found a tiny dagger she kept and sliced off a lock of hair for each boy.

"There you go," a laugh almost made its way up to her mouth but her expression dimmed and the laugh was swallowed back, "now go back home!" she instructed and nodded down the street.

They each gave her a surprise hug that nearly toppled her into the bubbling river below. The soft glow returned but her arms moved stiffly to pat the two on the back lightly until they retreated and ran down the street laughing.

Fifer was now under her skirt again. He chattered irritably as she got up to continue her search and possibly pick pocket a few Parisians on the way to the puppet show.

It was only when she looked down did she notice two of the bags on her sash were missing. Those boys! Luckily for her they swiped the wrong bags. All they would accomplish would be gaining a few pebbles.

The puppeteer had a fifty-fifty chance of gaining his pouch back. He'd better pray to lady luck because now, _now_ the delicate woman he dared trick would come at him with everything she could muster.

"Fifer… lets take this man down a peg or two."

.*.*.*.

She had arrived near the end of the last puppet show of the day. Standing among the crowd and watching the conclusion of a tale between a mouse with a bat and a cowardly lion. It had appeared to amuse the children greatly as they were giggling like they had been fed sugar.

As always the Puppeteer was well into his story, dancing about and playing with works and voices for comedy. At the end of the performance he made the puppets bow to the audience before he, himself bowed with enthusiasm.

"And that, my dears, is the last performance of the day." This gained an audible groan from the crowd of children.

Lavelle watched closely as he knelt down to the children's level, "now children, we don't want your parents getting upset do we." He shook his head gently, "because if they get angry I won't be able to tell you more stories."

"Mama doesn't like that I visit," one girl started to sob into her sleeve. Lavelle felt the need to console the poor creature and had started to move forward cautiously. In many respects seeing children cry made her uneasy, she would have done something faster if she knew how to comfort people.

The Puppeteer glanced up and gave a little charming smile her way, barely even noticeable to the children.

"She says that Gypsies are thieves and evil. B-but-" the child blurted in between sobs.

"Petite fleur don't cry," the gypsy man conjured a handkerchief up and gave it to the young girl as a gift, "don't cry, for we have a secret see! You know and I know that I am not evil but that is the best part!" he smiled and jumped up with new enthusiasm, "now I _could_ tell you one more story… but it is complicated you see. If I could gain some assistance from the beautiful young lady at the back there-"

Lavelle had never seen children turn so quickly. So many puppy eyes gazing up at her like she had just told them that Father Noel did not exist.

"I-I-I…" she stammered, trying to push the words out of her mouth. Adult in the premises… granted he acted like a hyperactive seven year old but still an adult!

"Great! She says yes!" Before she even understood what he jabbered, his gloved hand hooked around the front of her cloak and her yelp was strangled off as he yanked her to the front. The children clapped manically for her participation and they watched wide eyed and broad grins across their faces.

He dragged her round the back of a shadow screen, whispering in her ear as he went "Try to have some fun while you rob me. I'll feel insulted if I don't at least see a smile on that pretty face of yours."

Lavelle swayed her hips out of the man's reach and yanked the front of his blue hat down over his face. Her lips thinned in rage.

All he did was laugh, pull his hat back up and handed over a delicate shadow puppet of a bird with swirling feathers, "now follow the story and try not to damage anything." He grinned and noted how she glanced down more than twice to examine the artistry, no doubt giving the puppeteer an ego the size of France.

Ducking down he picked up several other puppets and began the theatrics energetically.

This story was about a fire bird that was too afraid to land on the ground. The bird was blamed and attacked by the creatures of the ground until she could no longer rest. Eventually the bird became weak form starvation. In her last moments she flew high into the sky. Joining the moon and stars to blaze freely and happily, flying and landing on the clouds. Her name became Sun.

The bird puppet was stiff and had four sticks to control it. Coupled with avoiding the hands of the puppeteer and keeping up with his sporadic story Lavelle fought hard to carry on to the best of her ability, planting one or two kicks at him if he got to close, shortly he even turned that into a joke!

"Our fire bird is feisty it seems." He would quip as if it was a slapstick routine between the two puppeteers.

Over all… it was fun! The story was told by a mouse and a sparrow puppet and their comic relief was pretty funny. She heard the children laughing, booing and wowing as if it was on queue which made the whole situation even more laughable. Even though Lavelle knew she was being watched, a small smile bloomed whenever she heard a reaction. In turn her puppets movements became more interactive, bouncier and smoother in action.

The children clapped when the story had finished and she folded the bird puppet's broad wings into a bow playfully. With the performance ending Lavelle hoped to make a quick escape so the attention was no longer on her but quite frankly the crowd and the gypsy man would not stand for it.

"Give applause for the surprise guest of the show boys and girls!" He hooked her by the arm and bowed with their arms locked, forced into being dragged down with the curtain call bow. Glaring stone daggers at the gypsy for such humiliation she ripped her arm out of his grasp and stiffened. Coughing uncomfortably as her eyes scanned the giggling, broad smiled group she forced a smile for the children she gave a brief nod to them before running away.

"Miss Demarche boys and girls, the Fire Bird! What do you think?"

Lavelle staggered in shock. The high feeling she had gained in the show plummeted down into the ground, leaving cold dread to take its place. The knowledge of her name was dangerous enough, coupled with the fact he knew how to get under her skin with very little effort. This game was becoming uncomfortable fast.

What had she done?

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**R&R if you want more of this action :) And If you have any criticism, if it does not flow well or the characters are off putting, please tell me . I would like to improve as much as possible!**

**Thank you **


	3. Locking Horns

Clopin hadn't seen Lavelle for the past three days. A shame really, he had grown curious over their meetings and had become extremely interested in her origins. If she didn't show he would just have to assume it was a draw with their little game. He was baffled to find that, even with distraction and a close eye on her she had still managed to steal her coin bag back.

"Demarche… The mademoiselle with red hair?" Michelle was a mother in the Court of Miracles who could find out just about anything with the help of her 13 children. She didn't give birth to all of them! That would be like throwing a sausage down an alleyway for her husband! No she had a habit of picking up orphans off the street and before they knew it they would be scrubbed clean and made to do chores. Clopin gave a repressed shiver at the childhood memory of nearly being drowned by his aunt's butch arms at bath time.

"Yes… yes! I have heard of her."

The old woman watched with watery black eyes, her tanned ageing face smiled as the young man before her lit up like a fire when she had answered yes. He probably didn't even realize how easily he was being read. His smug smile turned genuine and brown eyes widening a fraction. His sloppy posture straitened with interest. Although Michelle had to wonder if this mystery 'Lady Fire Bird' as her nephew named her, was just another fleeting interest.

Probably. Clopin was a very good judge of character, even with his head in the clouds, but the sad fact was… that boy was stuck in his own little world with no one to share it with. What he sought was something that was sadly impossible, for no woman or man had ever succeeded in entering that mind of his and she highly doubted this one would be any different from the rest.

Michelle pulled a locket from her crumpled, frilled shirt and unlocked it to show two locks of red hair, "Marco and Phillip met her a couple of days ago. The poor dear, was probably talked to death by those two. Well she gave them these locks of hair for good luck and, oddly, a bag of rocks. She is an unusual one that is for certain but-"

"Ah thank you Madame! As always I am enchanted by our usual talks," Clopin narrowly avoided a three hour long gossip session with the old woman, flinging up his hands in a surrendering gesture and springing away from the woman. Michelle was known to be easily offended and he was not going to sit though having his ear pinched like a child being told off. He may be the King of the Gypsies but that still didn't stop his aunt from deafening him in one ear, "but I have to go, guards to trick, people to entrance with amazing tales-" he didn't finish his sentence before sliding around the corner of a tent and disappearing with a toothy grin.

"Who's entranced by who I wonder." she sighed, a saddened expression on her wise features.

…

Today was not a good day for the gypsy king. The cold days were drawing in and the crowd of children had diminished drastically due to the weather.

However was also given brief guardianship of a troublesome child while her mother cooled off from having a fit of rage. The girl had let a goat into their home and it had eaten most of their furniture.

And now she was busy ranting away her frustration to him; emphasizing every word with a hand gesture as they rode home from an uneventful day on the donkey pulled caravan. She was a boisterous little thing with her mother's green eyes and her father's bad temper.

Clopin would never admit to anyone but he admired the child's father like an idol when he was younger. His name was Daha, an extremely suave dark skinned man with an… interesting accent who would often regale tales of his home, with strange cultures and magical artifacts, to the children of the Court of Miracles, including the fledgling puppeteer. He was a foreigner from the south who married into the French Gypsy family through the little girl's mother Amata, an acrobat at the time that caught the foreigner's eye after he was accidentally swept into the Feast of Fools by the previous Gypsy King, Petsha Trouillefou.

When little Esmeralda was born he was one of the first to visit the mischief prodigy along with his father the Petsha. The two adult men were close friends and partners in crime so it wasn't surprising when Daha asked the King to be the godfather to the little girl.

However when she was only two years of age… the Judges of Paris found the two fathers guilty of Heresy and attempted murder of the Captain of the Guard. The Captain was getting to close to the Court of Miracles and so the two men tried to kill him, resulting in them getting captured and hung in front of the Palace of Justice.

It turned to the 18 year old Clopin to gain some responsibility and become the child's godfather and the King of the Gypsies. Juggling the protection of his people, social order, comforting a distraught Amata and helping her take care of Esmeralda… It would have been overwhelming if he hadn't kept his unique mentality and if Michelle wasn't there to support him.

He wasn't a serious person but when it considered the pride of his father and the trust of a close friend, he would do whatever it took to be the best guardian possible… She still deserved better.

"I was only trying to house-train it!"

He glanced down at the 8 year old girl sulking with a parental gaze, "Well maybe you should consider that next time you let the goats chew the furniture. I wouldn't be babysitting you if-"

A person ran straight in front of them and down a dead end alleyway, a dirty green cloak and flash of ginger indicated who it was. Well she was still alive it seemed.

"Who's that? Is she the Fire Bird Lady?" The Esmeralda held onto Clopin's hand tightly as he carried on driving down the street.

"Yes, and now you can say you have seen her for a whole 5 seconds!" Trying to look uninterested in his expression but the little girl smirked as he leaned forward and looked down the alleyway Lavelle had just sprinted down.

She giggled, which caught his attention, "what?"

"I didn't know you liked women."

He didn't even to try to hide his insult. Stopping the cart and turning, "Now that is not something a little mademoiselle like you should be saying."

The little girl pouted, "You're mean when you're caught out."

"Do I need to wash your mouth out?"

Before she could retaliate something slammed into the side of the cart with a bang; nearly sending the girl flying backwards of the cart with a wide eyed expression of horror. Clutching onto the girl's hand while trying to keep the alarmed donkey to stay put, he dragged Esmeralda close and peeked round the cart. A guard, obviously not looking where he was going, had slammed into the back end of the caravan. The idiot was lying on his back, nose bleeding as his friend hauled him up.

"Esmeralda, go hide and don't come out until I find you," he spoke in a hushed tone before she lurched into action. Clambering of the caravan and rushing to hide behind a stack of crates, peeking out slightly to watch the scene play out.

"Hey," a great meaty fist grabbed the puppeteer by the scruff and dragged him off the cart seat roughly, "what are you doing out here?"

The man was almost comically short and once the gypsy had gained his balance he tipped his hat to the man and, being taller by a head, brushed the man's hand away with an almost mocking grin, "Monsieur, I was merely heading to the outskirts of Paris when your friend decided to lovingly acquaint himself with the back end of my home."

"Quiet Gypsy, you have no right to mock us!" the guard with the bleeding nose tried to demand with what was left of his dignity; drawing his sword with one hand while clutching his face with the other.

His nose was definitely broken.

"Do you have the right to point your weapon at me in such a manner? Have I committed a crime?" Clopin asked with wide eyes and poked the sword away from him before jumping right in front of the bleeding guard hyperactivity, "oooh you need to get a doctor to look at that," leaning against the caravan he patted it gently, "My dear Lavelle does not take kindly to men chasing after her I believe. She's a feisty mademoiselle." He made it sound like he was talking about the cart, but announcing it loud enough for the woman still hiding down the dead end alleyway to hear.

"Trouillefou, how come wherever thieves are involved you are closely followed?"

He didn't even notice as a third guard, who emerged from down the alley they had come from, on the back of a brown horse; cold ice eyes that looked down on him with disgust and menace, "you're not putting up a very good argument for your people are you."

The Captain of the Guard was a bulky, towering man with sickening morals and a devious mind. Often he prayed on the smaller folk who couldn't defend themselves properly, like Lavelle, and robbing the person of all their possession before taking them away to the Palace of Justice, claiming they were thieves, witches or heretics to keep Judge Frollo happy. To him all of the listed linked to Gypsies. The only thing stopping him from killing Clopin was the fact that the public attention would cause uproar. What could he say? He's a popular man!

The Captain didn't seem to quite grasp that not every evil-doer in France had Romani blood in them nor did they follow Romanipen, basically their cultural and traditional code that was embedded deep into Gypsy society.

He wondered if the Captain's head would explode if he divulged this information. Clopin imagined the event in detail before snapping back to the situation. Taking off his hat and performing a mockingly low bow, he announced with an underlying hint of sarcasm, "Oh Captain, what an honor for you to grace us with your presence!"

This got him a skewering glare before the Captain indicated to one of the guards. A swift punch to the stomach left the Gypsy winded and kneeling on the ground in pain.

"We don't have time for this, where it the man who stole from us." The Captain barked.

Clopin clutched his stomach and looked up at the man who was sitting high on his horse, teeth gritted as he spat, "You're looking in the wrong place monsieur."

With another indication, he was slammed against his caravan and pinned there, "Again, where's the man who stole from us. I would answer wisely Trouillefou or this could get very messy."

He gasped for air, flailing and managing to plant a good kick into one of the guards, eyes wide in pain as he watched the Captain draw his sword and put the tip against his chest. Poking hard into Clopin's chest and tearing his clothing slightly, the Gypsy stopped moving. Watching the sinister sword gleam as it pinned him still.

"Notre Dame, she was headed to Notre Dame for Sanctuary!"

"That thief was a woman?"

"Merde," He breathed, cursing himself for rash thinking, "I only saw them for a second; the cloak hid the person well!" He lied on the spot, bowing his head and putting on the performance of a lifetime.

A couple of seconds passed as the Captain assessed him and the situation, watching in sadistic pleasure as the blade tip twisted and started to cut into Clopin's chest as he thought. Blood started to bloom on purple clothing and the captain took delight when the Gypsy hissed in pain.

"Are you sure your memory is clear Gypsy? Pain is supposed to clear thoughts you know." The Captain smiled gleefully as Clopin grunted, drawing blood by biting his lip.

"I'm sure."

"Certain?" The sword dug deeper into his chest and the man finally cried out, using his shallow breathing to make the agony filled noise sound like breathless laughter.

"Certain!"

Finally pulling the sword tip out the guards dropped him on the ground, "Come men, we don't have time for this trash; To Notre Dame!"

With that the Captain of the Guard galloped off to the church, the guards running after him like pet dogs.

The ground felt strangely cooling. It was very comfortable for the bleeding man as he lay face down. But he had a job to do. He had to get Esmeralda home to Amata or she will get worked up again. He needed to get the child somewhere safe.

He heard sobbing, or was that just his imagination? It played tricks on him often, sometimes very scary ones.

"Esmeralda?" he got to his knees and clutched his chest tightly. God this was not his day at all! Looking up white blobs filled the sky and started to cover the streets in white. Dragging himself up with the help of the caravan he started walking shakily to the front of the cart.

A woman in a green cloak stood there with a worried and, quite frankly, terrified expression. Her grey eyes looked like watery silver as she cried. Her nose red from the cold and her thin hands did not look healthy with a worrying shade of pink. She pulled back her cloak to reveal sobbing Esmeralda clutching to Lavelle's leg; green eyes wide and just as terrified with big fat tears rolling down her dark cheeks. She was chewing her thumb nail, a sign that her nerves were shaken as she released herself from hugging one leg to rush towards him and latch on to his limb, sobbing loudly.

"I t-thought they were gonna kill you!" she hiccuped her way through the sentence and cried on his trouser leg.

Still clutching the wound in his chest he crouched shakily and petted the small girl's hair, "Shh petite fleur. You see I'm still here." He ruffled her thick hair and pulled out a puppet that looked like him from an unknown area, "That would be sad if I went away."

"No it wouldn't," the puppet squeaked, "It would be quiet!"

"But quiet is boring! We don't like boring do we la Esmeralda?" he smiled as the girl gave a watery giggle before putting her tiny hands over his mouth. "Let's not have Esmeralda be scared any more shall we," he spoke, muffled by those tiny hands.

Lavelle was edging closer towards them and knelt on the ground beside the two, looking towards Esmeralda.

"Oh, um, mademoiselle Fire Bird said you would be in shock, and that we needed to get somewhere safe so she can use her magic to make you feel better. Should we go back home and take her-"

"No."

The two girls watched as he tried to get up, "Mademoiselle Lavelle we can take care of ourselves. We can do without your help for the time being."

Lavelle frowned and looked down at the pavement. There was a lot of blood for just one wound. She shook her head and got up, Esmeralda taking her hand as she looked furiously at the stubborn man. He looked very pale and was shaking. Not many people would notice but only a few people cared to learn to spot the symptoms of shock like Lavelle had.

"Miss Lavelle, with all due respect, you've done enough," He growled prickly. Did she seriously have to lock horns with the foolish gypsy in front of the child? Now when those guards could be back at any moment and skewer them both? She wiped her tears away defiantly and with thin angry lips she demanded, "Where?"

He leaned against the caravan, "What do you want from us? You're free, go! "

She indicated to Esmeralda and frowned. They both knew he was in no condition to protect anything, "P-p-lease… R-r-repayment." Her voice shook and he noticed she sounded like she was being strangled when she talked. Her guilt was clearly across her face and the Gypsy man had to wonder when he had become so soft. Rubbing his eyes tiredly he muttered, "There's a barn on the outskirts of town. You steer and I'll tell you where to go." Holding out his hand to Esmeralda she took it and let go of Lavelle's to get up on the cart seat. He then heaved himself up before allowing Lavelle to clamber up and take the reins of the donkey.

Esmeralda curled up next to the injured puppeteer who clutched his wound in an attempt to stop it from bleeding with one hand and the other arm wrapped protectively around the child.

Apart from giving directions to Lavelle the caravan ride was quiet. Unbearably so to the man wedged between a sleeping little girl and an equally stubborn woman who was quite happy and relaxed with the silence. Smiling whenever he was caught looking her way, noticing she often glanced to the side to make sure the poor man was still alive.

Two minutes and he was humming a tune softly. Another five minutes and he started talking again, much to the sparkling amusement that glinted in Lavelle's expression. Probably a record time as they trotted the donkey into the poorer district of town as the snow fell.

"I heard from a few young boys that you were from Erehwon mademoiselle."

She shot him a knowing look, raising her eyebrow as a small smirk crossed her lips. Gently she nodded and guided the donkey into countryside.

"It's a sad case to be from nowhere don't you think?"

Her eyes widened and she glanced anxiously between him and the road. She shouldn't be all that surprised, her anagram was pretty pathetic and she was dealing with a smart man here, not some children. He spoke as if he knew of the feeling which made her gut twist painfully.

She opened her mouth but it took a few seconds for her to speak, "f-familiar?"

He smirked and leaned forward slightly, "Petite it practically comes with the heritage!" using hand gestures to emphasise his point flamboyantly, "It's hard when no one particularly wants you on their land. Gypsies are often seen as pests, especially here in Paris."

"Why s-stay?"

This validated a raised eyebrow, "Why so curious petite?" He swore she blushed at that moment in time and concentrated on the road. A couple of nervous seconds later she decided to say what she wanted to.

"S-s-similar?"

He laughed as hard as the wound would permit him before shaking his head and dipping his hat, "I'm afraid that is not the case mademoiselle. You and I are two completely different creatures, that much can be seen."

As if he had said something shocking, Lavelle stiffened, her eyes turning stony grey once more and she shrank in an attempt to make herself seem less noticeable.

"Ah, I tend to talk too much petite. I'll keep quiet if it bothers you so much." He muttered and slouched back, his hat flopping over his eyes subtly.

"No!" she spoke with alarm in her tone before blushing behind her hair, "t-talk. I-it's nice." After the confession she coughed awkwardly.

Tilting his hat back up slowly with the tips of his fingers, he stared at her in confused fascination. He thought she preferred silence. What was with the sudden change in preference?

"Well what do you want to talk about?" he coughed and sat up again.

"Story?"

With a broad smile he leaned forward, "Of course, I can do that!"

With that she smiled as he started talking all the way to the barn; telling tales that Daha used to tell him about the desert lands. Whenever he became too energetic the wound would be a painful reminder that he was injured and that she was only here to help them to some sort of safety. Relying on a woman was a very particular blow to his ego.

Steering into the barn she got off the caravan and offered a hand down.

"I'm not a cripple my legs still work fine," The gypsy grumbled, as if to try and prove a point he sprang down with finesse.

Lavelle rolled her eyes at his smug grin before turning to Esmeralda, who was sound asleep on the caravan seat. Curled up she seemed to unconsciously reach for body warmth. She went up and picked up the little girl to carry her to somewhere better to sleep.

She coddled into Lavelle's red hair and muttered something inaudible as she carried on dreaming. Clopin reached out to carry the girl but she pointed out the blood covering his shirt.

"There is a bed in the back of my caravan. She can use that." Clopin whispered as he approached slowly, keeping away the blood stains he rubbed the top of the girl's head affectionately, "goodnight la Esmeralda."

Lavelle went round and entered the traveling home, being shadowed closely by Clopin. It was a tightly packed space with puppets, bits of cloth, a shadow screen and a squashed bed in the corner of the colorful space. Slowly she lowered the child onto the bed and untangled her from her body. She held onto a lock of hair, which Lavelle eventually cut off for the girl to keep before taking off her green cloak and tucking Esmeralda up with it, like a blanket.

She noticed a bottle of half-finished wine and picked it up before turning to walk out; noticing that Clopin had been watching her every move with a judging expression. His face softened for a second, "You're good with children Cherie. Whoever knew?"

Lavelle let out a short, quiet laugh before approaching him and uncorking the wine. "Why mademoiselle Demarche I did not think you were that forward!" He teased with a sultry tone.

She rolled her eyes and sighed, "Merde."

"Oh my, you curse too!"

The woman shot a glare at him before trying to get a look at the wound in his chest.

This resulted in him springing back in alarm as she entered his personal space rather abruptly, "No, don't you dare."

Lavelle had managed to glance at the wound and the first impression wasn't good. If it wasn't sewn up fast it could get infected. She would not be blamed for that so carefully she edged round, like cornering a cat she cut off the exits before approaching him again, making him back up into the hay covered corner.

"You just don't give up do you woman," He leaned against a beam to keep himself upright, looking like he would spring away at any moment if she did the slightest thing wrong.

Taking her time, she removed her satchel and threw it into a hay pile not too far from his position. Raising her hands up and edging closer until she was a step away from him with big wide eyes that pleaded softly.

Clopin twitched, obviously uncomfortable with this whole situation but looked too ill to do anything.

"Ple-ease," her voice quivered as her head bowed. She thought considerately before gently moving back the blood-stained material. Still maintaining her distance and only using the tips of her fingers to peak at the sticky, bloody gash and gulping.

"That bad is it?"

Her attention flickered up and shook her head. She mimed sewing and indicated to the wine in the sympathetic stare.

"Don't give me that puppy eyed look! I'm not dead yet you know." He laughed and rooted around in his money bag for the needle and thread Lavelle had discovered when she stole the bag. "We should consider an exchange petite. You want to help and I feel like I'm going to need that wine very soon," he sighed, for once he looked very tired as he pulled out the needle and thread.

Lavelle had a look of surprise slapped across her features. Blinking for a second as he finally caved in.

"Uh, petite," he clicked in front of her face and she snapped out of her shock in alarm, coughing in embarrassment. "Don't space out to much. You may end up being called crazy."

She flitted a small smile before taking the thread and needle from his hand and gave over the wine.

"Lie down."

He sighed and grumbled as he begrudgingly followed orders for probably the first time in their entire exchange. Lavelle told herself to keep professional as she knelt down in the hay next to him and reaching for a satchel she pulled out a candle and a holder; odd things to carry around in a bag yet very useful. Setting the candle alight she carefully made a space so it wouldn't set anything on fire and went to stick the needle into the flame to clean it.

An eastern method for stitching up people, fire was a very cleansing element and it was important for the needle to be clean.

Clopin took one look at what she was doing before taking a long swig of the wine, "this is not going to be fun."

Lavelle looked up from her work for a brief second before carefully lifting up his tunic and gugel. The blood made the clothing stick and as she picked it away he hissed in pain. Even in her hardened state she felt herself go pale and almost vomit at the gory sight.

Stealing the wine bottle for a second she poured it on the wound and a colourful array of curses sprang from the man's mouth; flinching away and wriggling.

"Still!" Lavelle demanded as she tried imagined trying to sew up a moving target. She took a swig of the wine herself to sturdy herself for the inevitable battle to come. Pulling the now glowing needle away from the flame she threaded the needle with ironically coloured purple thread before glancing at the unusually quiet Gypsy.

He had a thin sheen of sweat covering his body as he watched with fidgety, scanning eyes. Spending up all his energy for the day, Lavelle felt as if what she was witnessing was not something he would let anyone see. "Great I'm being put back together by a drunkard," he spoke sarcastically and rolled his eyes.

She went to start sewing up the wound, swallowing and glancing up at the man who watched expectantly. He was jittering so much that Lavelle could guess he would become a moving target as she tried her best to make this a clean operation.

Without a change in though she rose and pinned him down on the neck with her knee and using her other knee to pin down his right hand. A dagger was at her throat just as quickly. She looked down with a stony stare, not daring to move her head. The metal was pressed so that her jaw was raised high.

"I would hate to cut that pretty little neck of yours petite," he purred, moving the blade of the dagger playfully along the length of her neck, "Kicking a man when he is down is a low blow after all. You're not like that are you?"

The candle light flickered as the two kept their guard up. Lavelle swallowed and whispered, "don't move," before dangerously sticking the needle into his tan skin. Gaining a hiss of pain and, as expected, he moved; pushing against her knees as they restrained but didn't strangle him. The dagger didn't move, nor did it cut her. So with another deep breathe she did the procedure again; and again.

"I swear this is divine punishment!" he muttered through gritted teeth as she carried on.

"w-why sa-ve me?" Her flat tone meant no messing about.

"I ask myself the same question-" she threaded another loop which made him stall bite down on his lip in mid-sentence.

Shooting an angry glare up at her she was fiercely staring back down at him, jaw tilting up high due to the dagger. Steadily she looked back to her work, the disappointment apparent in her steely gaze.

"I-I need to cut th-thread."

He allowed Lavelle to lower her head carefully with the dagger against her throat still. She used her teeth to cut the thread she released his neck and arm when it was done.

"I'm no-not cruel m-monsieur," she stammered her way softly through the sentence, ripping some spare material from her satchel as he sat up. Wrapping it round his chest tightly like a bandage with a serious expression and tying it.

The dagger lowered from her neck and went back into its scabbard, "I don't know mademoiselle. Why I didn't let them catch you," he straightened his tunic and took of his battered hat to slick back his black hair, "it irritates me, even now… After all I am, regretfully, just a man." He joked quietly.

It seemed that answer was all she needed to smile at him. Her guard was still up, after all that what tends to happen when you point a sharp object at someone, but Lavelle was well and truly a brave woman.

She blushed a little bit before edging backwards and leaving him to his personal space. As her skirt moved to stand, a little white head popped out from underneath the rim.

"I don't mean to alarm you petite but either you've given birth to a monkey or that is how you've been robbing me."

She looked down and sighed, reaching down and letting the small creature to rest on her arm; nodding with a sharp smirk, "Fifer."

He just stared at the pet, wondering on how the hell she had managed to own and train a monkey. The little white fur-ball made tired noises and she nuzzled the pet affectionately.

This validated another swig of wine, a long one.

"Goodni-night monsieur Trouillefou." she whispered, a hint of teasing and affection in her tone.

Putting his hat back on and tipping it to the lady he politely managed, "You too petite."

Lavelle wandered to a different corner of the barn with a chaste smile spreading across her mouth as she went to sleep; with Fifer scampering back to get her satchel before going back to his mistress.

Clopin laid back in the hay, mulling over his own thoughts, his hat over his eyes as he waited for the woman to go to sleep. He would go back to the court with the caravan and Esmeralda as soon as Lavelle was fast asleep.

For the time being however, he would try to figure out what on earth had happened in this surprisingly eventful day and why.

Coming to the conclusion that if there was a God… He liked to pull of cruel tricks indeed.

* * *

**A/N**

**Phew that is a long one! I didn't know where to stop so I'm sorry if it's a bit of a dump. XD  
**

**I always found it odd that Phoebus took being sewn up like a champ in the film. If you've ever been sewn up while conscious its not pretty! Mind you Disney and all, they cant make the most romantic scene seem like torture. **

**Big hugs to Bahamut Crisis Core, Military-SweetHeart and ShadowAbsol13 you don't know how much your reviews helped me keep writing and they are a MASSIVE encouragement! **

** Thank you for reading this dump of a chapter, hope you liked XD. R&R Tell me what can improve please and do tell me what you like! **


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